The Stepmothers’ Support Group. Sam Baker

      

       The Stepmothers’ Support Group

      SAM BAKER

      

       For my favourite boys, Jon and Jamie. Thank you for letting me be part of your little family.

      A stepmother is not a mother. She can help you with your homework and make dinner, but she should not be able to decide when you should go to bed.

       Delia Ephron

      Table of Contents

       Cover Page

       Title Page

       Dedication

       Epigraph

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

       TEN

       ELEVEN

       TWELVE

       THIRTEEN

       FOURTEEN

       FIFTEEN

       SIXTEEN

       SEVENTEEN

       EIGHTEEN

       NINETEEN

       TWENTY

       TWENTY-ONE

       TWENTY-TWO

       TWENTY-THREE

       TWENTY-FOUR

       TWENTY-FIVE

       TWENTY-SIX

       TWENTY-SEVEN

       TWENTY-EIGHT

       TWENTY-NINE

       THIRTY

       THIRTY-ONE

       THIRTY-TWO

       THIRTY-THREE

       THIRTY-FOUR

       THIRTY-FIVE

       THIRTY-SIX

       EPILOGUE

       ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       ONE

      ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Stop worrying. This is going to be fine.’

      ‘Ian…’

      ‘I mean it. I’ve told the kids to behave. We’re going to Hamley’s afterwards. All you guys have to do is say hello to one another.’ A muffled noise came from the other end. ‘OK?’ Ian said, his tone changing. ‘See you soon…It’s Eve,’ she heard him say to someone. ‘We’ll do that later. I’ve already told you.’

      ‘Oh God, Dad…’

      And then the line went dead.

      The girl’s voice was the last thing she heard. It was young, very English; much more confident than she had been at that age. Hannah? Eve wondered. It sounded too grown-up to be Sophie. She was still wondering when something else hit her.

       I’ve told the kids to behave.

      Why did they need telling? Ian was always saying how sweet and polite they were, all things considered. Maybe the devil was in that last detail.

      This was like taking her driving test, plus getting her A-level results and having a root canal all rolled into one. Maybe throw in a job interview, for good measure. Actually, it felt worse than all of that. Much worse.

      Her stomach was empty, hollowed out and queasy. If she’d eaten anything worth throwing up, she would have done so, right there on Charing Cross Road. An anxiety headache pushed at the edge of her vision; and the first decent spring day of the year would have hurt her eyes, if only it could have found its way past her enormous sunglasses. When she’d tried them on they had given her an air of nonchalance, or so she’d supposed. But now she was horribly afraid they made her look like a bug-eyed, frizzy-haired insect. A Dr Who monster to send small children screaming behind the sofa.

      Come on, Eve,